I like to sleep.
In the emptiness of the night,
Some dark and dry,
Some that make me cry.
Some, where there is only noise,
And some that you fantasize.
Some take you through the alleys of Eygpt,
Others just seem so crypt.
Sometimes they lead you into a dungeon,
Others may fly you over the bridge in London.
Some real, Some fake,
why is that dreams are made?
Is there a story behind those images,
Or did someone write a screenplay in pages.
I kept wondering how to define,
Yet at the end of the night,
Those dreams were mine.
I saw a pyre being lighted by me,
I woke up, only to cry and cry,
Assured it will never be,
Until weeks later, it indeed was me!
Did someone say, dreams do come true,
Little did they tell me,
Only the nightmares do.
Why are dreams made?
To give me happiness or pain.
Some lose, some retain,
But if they were not meant to be,
Why do one I even see?
Those dreams where I smile, I laugh,
Those dreams where I live happily ever after,
But those are dreams though,
When I open my eyes, flow away like water.
I think to myself,
Why did I have to wake up?
Is there no place on earth,
Where I could live it up.
So, what really are dreams made of?
Of plastic or of silk,
why don’t I seem to remember it at will.
Of demons or of angels,
no one could tell.
Of sweetness or of bitterness,
or randomly in wilderness.
Of reality or of fairytales,
lasts only until you are called “Awake!”
Of bright colors, or full of greys,
only the grey ones seem to stay.
Of a bright day or a gloomy night,
something you cannot seem to fight.
Of cotton or of wood,
I would choose them if I could.
Of water or of stone,
would capture them before they were gone.
Of sugar or of salt,
I wish I could know it all……………